


Owned

by spickandspock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hallucinations, M/M, Mindfuck, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-17
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-21 09:45:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spickandspock/pseuds/spickandspock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is fully under this devil's control. He is dazed and confused and incapable of remembering, of thinking properly. He is owned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Owned

The passage of time has lost all meaning to him. He is lost, drowning in the sands that flow ever on, sinking below the golden grains, going down, down, down, until he suffocates on hours, chokes on minutes, bleeds as he is stabbed by seconds, turning gold to maroon. Time burns, consumes his mind, body, heart, soul, and ashes, ashes, he falls down. 

He is falling, arms spread eyes open and stung by the wind as he watches his death come upon him. And yet his mind doesn't die, even when he hits the ground, his body breaks, his blood spreads in a dark pool beneath him, black as oil, eyes losing their light. He was still aware. He could hear screams, hear the ragged breathing, the shock-dulled voice of a man he couldn't remember in anything but flashes, in brief memories of warm jumpers and tea. He feels hands on him, checking for a pulse that isn't there, then lifting him, placing him on a gurney and wheeling him away. He feels something sharp biting into his skin, splitting him open. Hears the _tut, tut_ of a female he doesn't remember in anything but flashes of big brown eyes and shyness, her disapproval when she finds no evidence of a heart, only cogs and gears. He hears the sickening snap of metal ribs and more tutting as she peers into the machinery of his body. He hears the _scratch, scratch_ of a pen on paper, no doubt recounting her findings (machine, automaton, freak of nature, far better off in this state). He is covered in white and left alone.

He smells earth, the rich sent of fresh dirt. He cannot see the world, though, cannot see the sky as he should, on his back as he was. He saw only a dome of dark satin. He is lifted again, in whatever container he is held in, and lowered. A rattle of chains, an echo of faraway voices, and then a thud. Then another. Then another. Then another. Another, and another, and another, _thud, thud, thud, thud, thud_. 

He is being buried. He wishes to scream, but his vocal cords are steel and will not grind together to produce the sound. He wishes to claw his way from the coffin he is confined in, but cannot; he lost all his oil when he felt, and nothing will move. He wishes to die, to lose awareness, to sleep in that eternal rest that blanketed all. Machinery cannot die, though, and he knows he is stuck.

A hand is in his hair, skeletal and cold. A face appears in front of him and he stares into its dark eyes. The devil stares back and laughs softly, a jeering sound that makes him wish to shudder, if he could. A lilting, eerie voice floats to his ears and somehow he absorbs the sound. 

"Shush, darling. I've got you." 

He didn't want to be had. He wanted to move, to burst from his grave and flee, find his way back to warm-jumpers-and-tea, back to the life he thought he had before. And yet, as icy lips cover his own, he knows he will not, cannot. He is fully under this devil's control. He is dazed and confused and incapable of remembering, of thinking properly. He is owned.


End file.
